


Themes and Variations

by TheGuiltyOnes (ThexDoctorsxWife)



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Smut, THIS WILL BE SAPPY, alistair is adorkable and needs a hug, and completely self indulgent because I love my kids, little ficlets about whatever prompts tickle my fancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 23:25:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5845024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThexDoctorsxWife/pseuds/TheGuiltyOnes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are the fire at the heart of the world</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wanting more

**Author's Note:**

> *vague hand gestures* This is the product of boredom and my fervent need to write about my Cousland oc's and the ex-Templar Chantry boy they fall n love with. My over or under use of comma's are the result of a lack of a beta, so please do not judge too harshly.  
> Also, I won't be using the same Cousland each time - I'm trying to figure out how I want to write them, so.  
> I will add more tags when needed.

Kissing him is wonderful.

He puts everything he has into his kisses - his heart, his soul - and she feels lightheaded and girlish, cheeks blooming red, heart pounding, a foolish grin curving her mouth.

Not very dignified for a Cousland. Her mother would probably scold her for such nonsense, her blue eyes hard and unforgiving.

He always asks, shyly meeting her eyes, arms jerking slightly when he wants to touch her but is afraid of rejection. She never denies him, lets him place his hands on the curve of her hips, lets him brush her lips against her own before she reaches up on her toes to deepen the kiss.

They are both inexperienced, innocent and awkward, enthusiastic and fumbling. He peppers sweet open mouthed kisses against her jaw, the curves of her cheeks, fingers sliding in her hair as he cups her head in his big palms. She gives him brief kisses against the side of his neck, his jaw and when she goes up on her toes the corners of his mouth.

Kissing him has made her long for other aspects of intimacy.

He keeps his hands to her hips never straying up or down, though sometimes she swears she can feel the tension in his arms. She wants him to cup her ass, squeezing the flesh. She wants him to touch her breasts, wants him to put his mouth on her flesh.The problem is that she doesn’t know how to demonstrate her needs to him without her sounding like some loose woman. Blushing and stammering is not exactly how she wants to go about it either. But unless she says something, she’ll have to be content with the kisses that always leave her wanting more. It's hard to balance the line between confident and awkward, but Avelynne's nothing if not determined when she wants something. 

It starts out like any other kiss between them: giggles and shy looks, mouths meeting slowly, hands going to their respective places (his on her waist, hers against his chest) and as she stretches to reach the corner of his jaw, she whispers, “I want you to touch me.”

He gently squeezes her hips and says, “I am touching you.”

She rolls back in her feet, heart hammering in her chest, eyes locked on a spot over his shoulder. She worries her lower lip, fingers idly smoothing the wrinkles of his shirt as she ponders how to just say it. A finger touches her chin and she lifts her eyes to meet his, concern in his hazel gaze.

“Is there something wrong, Avelynne?” He asks. “Am I doing something wrong?”

He sounds so upset with himself that she hastens to reassure him. “No, you are doing nothing wrong.”

He relaxes slightly, the furrow of his brow dissolving, though he still looks at her with worry.

She sighs heavily, deciding to just tell him. Cheeks burning, eyes taking in the swaying tree branches above them, she says, “I want your touch on…other places besides my waist.”

He doesn’t say anything. Maker, he must think she’s too forward. She struggles to pull away, faltering when he doesn’t let her go. Huffing she says, “I apologize, that was forward of me, what you must think-”

A gentle kiss against her forehead cuts into her apology. With a start she glances up at him, noticing his red cheeks and shy smile. He doesn’t look offended, she thinks with no small amount of relief. Rather, he looks...delighted?

“I wasn’t sure if it would appropriate. You don’t know how much I’ve wanted to touch you in,uh…, other places,” he admits eyes darting to and from her face.

She grins, stepping closer until their chests are touching. Lightly skimming her fingers up his arms to settle against the nape of his neck, she says, “You can touch me where ever you like.”

His eyes widen, a groan slipping from his mouth. “Maker, Avelynne, are you sure?”

“I have never been more sure of anything.”

He claims her lips. There is something different when he kisses her this time - a sort of hunger in the way his mouth moves insistently against hers. His tongue makes a swipe against her lips and she eagerly allows him entrance, touching her tongue against his experimentally. He practically mewls against her mouth and the sound, low and throaty, spurns her on. She takes his bottom lip between her teeth, sucking and nipping, fire in her veins when he moans. His hands, which had remained at her waist, slowly travel down to cup her ass, pulling her closer, his hips rolling against her. She feels the evidence of his desire pressing against her stomach.

“Maker, I’m sorry,” he mutters as he pulls away, hands returning to her waist, his breathing heavy.

She nuzzles his chest. “You don’t have to apologize, Alistair. I’m glad you react that way to me.”

Thank the Maker her face is buried against his chest lest he notice the embarrassed look on her face when she said that. Why didn’t she possess some kind of filter that could save her from such awkwardness?

He laughs as he settles his chin on the top of head. “Well, that’s a relief. Otherwise we would be having a very different conversation.”

She giggles and kisses his mouth before leaving the warmth of his embrace. “Come on then,” she says, grabbing his hand, tugging him along. “We’ve got a group of hungry people, with weapons, depending on us to supply dinner. We’d best deliver.”


	2. she's come home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He throws open the door and Sweet Andraste there she is before him with her dark hair in a mess of tangles, a fresh scar curving down her cheek, her Grey Warden armor scattered on the floor, a simple tunic and leather leggings hugging her short lithe frame. Makers breath, but she is the loveliest sight he’s ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reunion pieces are like a balm to my soul. again, the mistakes are all mine. (also, i have come to realize i really like including corner of the mouth kisses, because i've included them in at least a few other pieces i've written. *shrug*).  
> in at least one of my hc's, there isn't a lot of angst when she returns home, but i'm sure it'll make an appearance.

He’s sitting at a one of those formal dinners Eamon insists on having whenever there is someone Important visiting. A pretty young lady is coyly smiling at him from across the table, her husband either oblivious or he’s encouraged her to seek the king’s favor. Either way, it makes him blush with embarrassment and anger.

It’s been three years since she’s left yet the peerage act as if she is dead (and she could be says the pessimistic side of him that he wishes would stop rearing its head) but there is something in his heart that says otherwise. He’s not a fool - to say something like that out loud would only incur looks of skepticism and so he suffers through flirtatious scheming women and their equally scheming husbands.

He turns to his left, trying to focus on whatever the Teryn of (something. Honestly, he really needs to work on this) has to say when there’s a commotion in the hallway. His hand smoothly closes around the dagger he keeps hidden at his side as the doors to the dining room open and a servant approaches, bowing low.

“You Majesty.”

“What is going on?”

“The Queen. She’s returned.”

He is up before the servant finishes his sentence, chair scraping loudly , mumbled apologies spilling from his mouth. It is undignified for the king to run through the castle so he settles for a brisk walk, praying no one tries to stop him. He heads towards the stables, intent on intercepting her.  
He runs into her handmaiden, Lynn, who stops him with a hasty curtesy and “she’s in your room, Sire.”

He switches directions, not even caring as he starts running, the blood filling his ears. He dismisses the guards stationed outside and flings open the doors, eyes scanning the lavishly decorated chamber, frowning when he doesn’t see her. He wonders foolishly if she’s hiding in the closet, intent of surprising him when he hears a very familiar sigh from the direction of the wash room. His heart is loud and erratic as he makes his way towards her, it feels like the distance between them stretches as if he’ll never make it.  
He throws open the door and Sweet Andraste there she is before him with her dark hair in a mess of tangles, a fresh scar curving down her cheek, her Grey Warden armor scattered on the floor, a simple tunic and leather leggings hugging her short lithe frame. Makers breath, but she is the loveliest sight he’s ever seen.

He’s stuck in the doorframe as he continues to drink in the sight of her, eyes never leaving hers as she slowly approaches him. Her features are sharper, leaner, blue eyes full of love and exhaustion as she stops before him.

“You…you’re really home?” He asks as though this is merely a dream meant to torment him with images of her.

When she nods he wants to fall to his knees and wrap his arms around her in the hopes that she’ll stay with him, wants to kiss her senseless to make up for the last three years, wants to see if her skin is just as soft as it was so long ago. Instead he settles for a tight grip of her hands, anchoring her to him as if to say ‘you’ll never leave me again.’

“Alistair,” she breathes, leaning in towards him. His name on her lips, the loving familiar way she says each syllable is his undoing. He kisses her hungrily, like a man who has stumbled in the dry desert for days only to come upon a well of refreshing water. He wants to be gentle but this desperate need for her fills his senses. His hands fit themselves against her slim hips, feeling the sharp bones jutting out from her flesh. The feel of her fingers in his hair is so foreign yet familiar.  
He pulls away and stares at her swollen lips and heavy lidded eyes.

He knows he should ask her about her mission but all he can about is that she’s really here, standing before him with snarled hair, that pretty shy smile curving her wide mouth, her hands in his, gripping tight.

She licks her lips and his eyes track the movement and he wants to kiss her again and so he does, slowly this time, relearning her mouth and the sounds she makes when he sucks on her bottom lip. He brigs his hands up to sift through her hair, pulling away with embarrassment when she cries out against his mouth.

She silences his stuttered apologies with a gentle kiss against the corner of his mouth. “It’s alright,” she reassures him with a smile. He cups her cheeks instead, thumb brushing against the scar.

“I was distracted,” she admits ruefully at his pointed glance. “I was so eager to to return home- to you - that I wasn’t paying attention. Damned Genlock's.”

He gathers her close, closing his eyes and thanking the Maker that all she received was this scar. Teasingly he says, “The Warden-Commander distracted? Wonders never cease.”

She smacks his chest lightly, though a grin curves her lips. “Oh stop it.”

Even though his lips twitch he manages to look serious.“If my lady commands.”

Wrinkling her nose, she says, “Your lady needs a bath.”

She smells like horse and metal and jasmine and honestly he he thinks she smells wonderful but clearly, she thinks otherwise as she turns from him to begin her bath, pulling her favorite shampoo from the shelf. She tosses him a coy grin from over her shoulder. “I find myself in need of help, if my king would be so eager to oblige.”

He grins, shutting the door behind him. “As my lady commands.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I figure my boyfriend should at least know my name if this relationship is to continue,” she teases.
> 
> He places a hand across his chest, sighing dramatically. “Forgive me for not asking, dear lady. What you must think of me.”
> 
> She laughs as he chuckles. “Fortunately for you, I am a merciful woman. You are forgiven.”
> 
> “How did I ever get so lucky,” he murmurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw a post on Tumblr about someone being stood up and their waiter coming in to save the day , so viola! Also, I do plan on adding smut in the near future so the rating will go up. I will be sure to tag appropriately and hopeful the smut won't sound ridiculous because that stuff is hard to write without sounding ridiculous.   
> All mistakes are mine ect. I don't own Alistair, unfortunately.

It’s been thirty minutes according to her cellphone.

Maybe he’s stuck in traffic, she thinks as she fiddles with her napkin. Hand wrapping around her cool glass of water, she drinks, eyes scanning the door of the restaurant and the parking lot outside. No sign of the flashy sports car. No sign of his confident, arrogant smile.Surely he would have called by now, she reasons checking her phone again. The ringer is all the way up and she was a signal, so really, there’s only one conclusion: Nathaniel Howe stood her up.

And maybe she should have figured it out by now what with the sympathetic glances of her waiter, Alistair, kept giving her every time he came to the table. Maybe the entire waitstaff knew and were gathered around in the kitchen speaking of the pathetic woman waiting for someone who had no intention of showing up. How often did they come across this scenario?

Cordelia Cousland felt humiliated, tears pricking against the corners of her eyes as anger simmered in the pit of her stomach. What an absolute prick Nathaniel was. His honeyed words and pretty brown eyes had ensnared themselves in her heart and she had foolishly believed him. When they had met at a Christmas party several months earlier, he had been attentive and charming, the ideal boyfriend she could see herself marrying in the future. And honestly she had thought that was where this had been heading towards.  
What an absolute idiot I was, she thinks resentfully.

She might have slammed her napkin on the table with more force than was necessary, judging by the way a few of the patrons heads turned, but she did not give a fuck at the moment. She pushes back her chair and is startled when the familiar voice of her waiter interrupts her.

“Sorry, my dear, to keep you waiting,” he says as he smoothly slides into the seat across from her.

She raises her eyebrows but sits back down.

“What are you doing?”

“Why just trying to enjoy a meal with my girlfriend,” he replies loudly.

Eyes narrow she says, “Listen here, pal, I don’t know who you think you are but-”

He leans forward and says, “It’s Alistair, in case you had forgotten.”

She rolls her eyes. Not exactly what she had meant.

“Listen Alistair, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I don’t want your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” he replies firmly. “I just,” his cheeks and neck turn red,“I don’t think a pretty woman such as yourself should dine alone.”

Her cheeks warm at his words. He thought her pretty. Interestingly enough, when Nathaniel had called her ‘pretty’ she had always felt an undercurrent of falseness buried within the sweet words as if he were saying the right words he knew she needed to hear. With this Alistair, though, the words rang true and coupled with the red shade of his face and the way his hazel eyes would flicker to and from her face, she was inclined to believe him. Or, at least give him the benefit of the doubt for now.

Scooting her chair in, she flips open the menu, eyes scanning the various dishes. “Cordelia.”

“Sorry, what?”

Lifting her eyes she glances at him. “My name is Cordelia.”

He smiles.  
“I figure my boyfriend should at least know my name if this relationship is to continue,” she teases.

He places a hand across his chest, sighing dramatically. “Forgive me for not asking, dear lady. What you must think of me.”

She laughs as he chuckles. “Fortunately for you, I am a merciful woman. You are forgiven.”

“How did I ever get so lucky,” he murmurs.

She asks him what he recommends and they share a decadent desert of a brownie slathered with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and whipped cream. They question each other about their lives, surprised to discover that they share a mutual friend - Lelianna - and that she had been trying to set them up for years now, both of them citing work and various personal problems that prevented them from meeting.

“And look at us now,” he says.

“Yes,” she says with a laugh, “I would almost wonder if she had a hand in all this.”

“She’s good, but not that good.”  
“Hmm.”  
He leans forward, hazel eyes serious. “I was wondering if-”

“Some of us would like to leave sometime tonight,” snaps a pretty dark haired woman as she walks by their table, a wet cloth in her hand as she wipes down tables.

“Morrigan,” he says, rolling his eyes.

With a start she glances around the empty restaurant and checks her phone, gasping when she realizes it’s nearly ten thirty. Maker, they have been here for hours.

“I need to go,” she says, pushing her chair back.

He stands up as well and says, “Can I walk you to your car?”

They head out together, quiet and consciously aware of the other.

“Well, this is me,” she says.

“I was wondering,” he starts, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck, “couldimaybehaveyournumber?”

She blinks in confusion.

“What?”  
He takes a deep breath and says with a glance a t the ground, “May I have your number?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry that was- what?”

He looks at her in surprise and she laughs as she rummages through her purse for a pen.

“Do you have a pen?”

He pats his pockets and hands one to her, still a little dazed. “That never happens,” he mumbles as he watches her write on a scrap of paper.

“What doesn’t happen?”

“Beautiful women never give me their numbers,” he responds taking the paper from her, tucking it into the pockets of his pants.

She presses a kiss against his cheek. His cheeks are dark and her heart is pounding.

“Thank you,” she whispers as she opens her door.

“For what?” He asks, a hand going up to his cheek.

“For sitting with me, for making me forget what a terrible evening I was having.”

“Oh, I…you’re welcome.”

Sliding into her seat she says, “Goodbye Alistiar.”

Long after shes gone, he’s still standing there, a hand pressed against his cheek, a ridiculous grin plastered on his face.


	4. grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Rowena, look at me.”
> 
> She does and the concern in his hazel eyes breaks the tight leash of control. She’s crying into the curve of his neck, fingers clutching the soft material of his tunic. His large hands run up and down her back soothingly, his voice offering words of comfort and love. She’s broken before him - no longer the proud, fearless leader. Fragility and vulnerability soak into her skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my poor dear Cousland. Only rowena belongs to me.   
> also, I'm thinking that either the next chapter or the one after will have smut. Maybe.

The nightmare permeates her dreams, horror and death interspersed between warm images of her family. Her dream self struggles to save them, watching with agony as they are cut down before her, pools of dark blood flowing beneath her feet. Little Oren’s cries echo in her ears, the sound an ugly melody of pain. She falls to her knees screaming, tears streaking her cheeks as her fists repeatedly strike the ground, her grief weighing her down.

“Rowena, Rowena,” comes a voice

The loving way the speaker says her name makes her stop, eyes scanning the barren field before her.

“Rowena,” it speaks again.

It’s a man, his name is familiar to her, the knowledge teasing the edges of her memory.

Standing up she stumbles forward, arms outstretched as she searches.

“Please,” she cries out in desperation.

“Rowena, you must wake up,” the man says firmly.

With a start she feels the dream slipping away, the colors fading as she slowly disappears.

 _Alistair_ , she thinks. His name is Alistair.

With a gasp her eyes open, the sound of her breathing loud and heavy in the quietness of her tent. A hand tentatively settles along her arm and she turns, her grey eyes connecting with hazel ones.

“It’s alright,” he says, bringing his hands up putting some distance between them.

She flops down on her makeshift pillow, her eyes closed as she tries to not imagine her dream. Tears pool in the corners of her eyes and she grits her teeth, not wanting him to see her cry.

“Rowena,” he says softly.

She ignores him, trying to regain control of herself.

“Rowena, look at me.”

She does and the concern in his hazel eyes breaks the tight leash of control. She’s crying into the curve of his neck, fingers clutching the soft material of his tunic. His large hands run up and down her back soothingly, his voice offering words of comfort and love. She’s broken before him - no longer the proud, fearless leader. Fragility and vulnerability soak into her skin.

“I miss them,” she cries as the heavy weight of guilt and sadness threaten to swallow her whole.

“I should have insisted that mother leave with me, I should have done more. They left me alone-”

He pulls back, cupping her face in his palms. His thumbs wipe away at the tears trickling down her cheeks. She wants to scream at the look he gives her; she doesn’t deserve to see his sympathy, his own tears swimming in his eyes.

“Rowena, there’s nothing more you could have done,” he whispers. “Your parents did not want your life to end there in that castle, surrounded by betrayal and blood. They wanted you to make your mark on the world and you will.”

She cups his face in her palms, kissing him with a ferocity that leaves him breathless. In between the meeting of their lips she says, “Please don’t leave me. I couldn’t bear it if you left.”

“I’m right here,” he kisses her mouth tenderly. “I am not going anywhere.”

She rests her head on his chest, fingers gripping his tunic, leg thrown over his, anchoring him to her. As if he would ever want to leave her.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....i lied. there is some "smut" but this little ditty wouldn't leave me

1.  
Hazel eyes meet her own, their gazes locked for several seconds before she forces herself to look beyond the trees. She's so tired and full of grief. She yearns for the solitude of her tent where she can properly allow herself to cry. It's been hard keeping a tight leash on her emotions; she fears she bears tiny cracks along her skin, the pain slowly seeping out from her tightly coiled chains around her misery.

The boy to her right is full of humor and mischief, teasing the aggravated Circle Mage with his irreverence. A small part of her is annoyed that he attempts to find humor in such a dire situation and she wonders just how well they'll get along in the days to come. 

A voice pulls her away from her internal musings. “One good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together.”

Sharp laughter erupts unchecked from her mouth – a foreign sound given what she's lived through these past few days. The boy is grinning, seemingly pleased at making her laugh.

Oh, she thinks with a start. He is handsome, with an easy grin, full lips, thick strawberry blond hair, and a smattering of freckles across his nose. 

She shakes away that thought, firmly reminding herself that there are more pressing matters to attend to.

Later though, in the darkness of her tent, his face flashes before her eyes, her heart pounding against her ribcage despite her fervent desire to never think of him.

2.  
A quick touch against her wrist and he's pulling her away from camp, his long legs forcing her to slightly jog at his side. There is a sense of urgency in the way he walks, until he finally stops before a cluster of trees. He lets go of her wrist and nervously meets her eyes, the dark red of his cheeks standing out against the setting sun. 

She is interested in whatever he holds behind his back, head tilting as she tries to peer around his body. He gently places a hand on her shoulder, forcing her back. He stutters and stammers, his hidden hand slowly coming into view, a deep red rose clutched between his fingers.

Rare and wonderful, he calls her as he offers her the flower. Heart racing in her chest, she accepts his proffered gift. She feels a piece of her heart fall into place, a sense of _this is right_ settling deep within her being. 

As the sun sets, his trembling arms encircle her waist as he lowers his head to kiss her, their mouths moving together unhurried and gentle. 

3.  
In the darkness of her tent, they face each other, eyes exploring exposed skin. He reaches for her, kissing her neck, her jaw, her mouth. His fingers explore and discover, her sighs and whimpers guiding him as he learns her body. He cups a breast, thumb flicking over a nipple, her back arching under his touch. 

I love you, he murmurs against her skin as he moves down her stomach, lower until he reaches that spot between her legs. I adore you, he says as his fingers press inside her.  
Fire is spreading through her veins as his thumb rubs insistently against her pearl, her fingers grasping at the ground beneath her as he brings her to peak. Tension coils tightly in her stomach as he curls his fingers against the sweet spot inside her. Let go, he commands, and With a cry she come apart, bursts of black spots dotting her vision, as her heart presses painfully against her chest.

He kisses his way up her body, his cock rubbing against her wet center. He slowly enters her, the sensation of him filling her a marvelous thing. _Stay with me_ , he mutters as she tightens around him. 

_As if I would ever leave_ , she thinks later as he sleeps beside her, his breath even against her neck.

4.  
The rattled sighs of the Archdemon echo through her brain, the creature struggling to rise despite the numerous wounds inflicted on its body. 

Hazel eyes snag her gray ones and she grips the side of his neck as she kisses him. I am sorry, the kiss says. He talks about duty and she shake her head, tears brimming in her eyes much to her irritation. Ferelden needs a king. It's citizens need him, a boy who grew up among them, who understands them, someone who will do right by them. 

She commits his features to memory: the hazel eyes full of love (just beginning to gloss over with unease), the thick strawberry blond hair her fingers had so lovingly run through earlier, the full lips and the overwhelming softness of them beneath her own.

I love you, she thinks as her fist connects with his face. She catches him, gently lowering him to the ground, kissing his forehead once more.

With a snarl, she raises her sword, charging towards the fallen beast.   
In death, sacrifice.


	6. undress my soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are you happy?"  
> "Happier than I ever dreamed possible."

He is utterly irreverent, she thinks as she listens to him sass the Mage.   
He jokes and she doesn’t nothing more than curl her lip in disapproval at his attempts at making light of this travesty snaking its way across the world.

Walking away, him trailing behind her, she prays that he isn’t stuck by her side for much longer.  
\---------  
The Maker enjoys her suffering it seems.  
They are the last two Grey Wardens, tasked with saving the world. And so they set out together, treaties tucked inside her pack, trying to muster up an army worthy of defending this land. 

She’s used to his attempts at humor. Ignoring him is easy; she’s so lost in her thoughts of vengeance that everything else fades away. 

Doesn’t stop him from trying his hardest from making her laugh much to her annoyance.  
\-----------  
It’s just a ribbon.

They’re in Denerim, gathering supplies for their journey, passing by several merchants selling their wares until a splash of green catches her eye. Leaving her companion behind, confusion in their eyes because she’s never one for pretty things, she marches up to the stand. She finds the pretty green ribbon, trimmed with golden thread. A memory flashes before her of a younger version of herself sitting at her mother’s vanity. Her Nan’s gentle hands run through her hair as her younger self giggles, watching Nan deftly twists her hair into braids, tying the ends with a green ribbon that perfectly matches the color of her eyes. Her Nan kissing the top of her head is such a sharp stinging pain in her chest that she nearly doubles over, her breaths coming out fast and erratic. 

The concerned looks of the merchant behind the stand forces her to straighten up and march towards the gates of the city, teeth clenched tightly together as she holds her head high. 

It’s only after they’re on the road that she falters, falling to her knees as pain slashes deeply inside, her tears soaking the ground beneath her. A large palm settles against her shoulder and she looks up. His hazel eyes are sympathetic. The feeling of his hand against her should is foreign to her, yet she craves simple touch. The next instant she is crying against his neck, her tears searing his flesh, no longer caring if he sees her like this-so broken and weak. Her sobs are loud and ugly, his low voice comforting in her ear. His hands curve against her back as they kneel in the dirt road together. 

Later, when her tears are spent and her voice is scratchy, she pushes away from him, shame burning brightly as she realizes that he’s witnessed her grief. She opens her mouth to threaten him, to keep this momentary weakness private, but he squeezes her hand gently, his eyes understanding, before walking ahead, leaving her feeling confused and grateful. 

As they set up camp, her eyes stray towards the cheerful young man. He catches her staring and smiles. He has dimples, she thinks absently. Long after he turns away, she realizes that her own lips are curved upwards in a smile. She quickly erases it, though the wild beating in her heart isn’t so easily forgotten.  
\-------  
They have a different relationship now, since they’ve shared an intimate moment, since he’s seen her weakness. His humor makes her days a little brighter, his sly jabs at Morrigan pulling a chuckle from her before she thinks to reprimand him. He grins at her, hazel eyes knowing as he accepts her reprimands, his deferential tone of apology at odds with the laughter glinting in his eyes. 

There are nights when they share the warmth of the fire, sitting close, thighs nearly touching, as she quietly opens up to him, revealing glimpses and pieces of the girl she used to be. He never demands more, merely sitting beside her, laughing or sympathizing when she recalls the days where she was a terror, her smart mouth usually landing her in trouble. The weight of her grief lifts as she shares her memories of her family, his laughter and presence a soothing balm to her wounds. 

“Thank you,” she says one night after she tells him of the time when Barkspawn had managed to sneak into the kitchen, terrorizing the servants. 

“You don’t need to thank me.”

She turns her head to look at him, the soft look in his eyes making her heart pound faster. 

It’s startling, scary, and overwhelming when she glances down at his mouth, wondering how it would feel against her own. Kissing someone isn’t new territory for Rowena, but the intense desire to kiss him in that moment is too much and she jerks away, cheeks burning.

She stands, running her palms against her clothing as she mutters her excuses. “I need to go wake up Leliana for her shift.”

She feels like she is being pulled in half as she leaves him there, a part of her still in front of the fire.   
\--------  
She didn’t realize just how much he means to her until she sees him fall on the battlefield, blood pouring between the fingers pressed futilely against his wound, his cry of pain rattling inside her heart. Her anger manifests itself in the deadly slashes of her daggers, her enemies falling, blood pooling the ground as she viciously cuts them down. 

She runs to his side, falling to her knees as she presses her hands against his stomach, heart pounding, her blood filling her ears as she looks at him. 

“Don’t you dare die,” she hisses between clenched teeth. “I will not allow this.”

He laughs weakly, his blood soaked hand settling atop hers. “So bossy.”

“I am a Cousland. We are known for our bossiness. It would serve you well to listen to me.”

His eyes shut, his hand falling to the side. There is a brief moment of panic as she scrambles to find a pulse; it’s weak but there and she yells for Wynne, her hand on his chest.

She will not lose him to the Maker. 

“You will not leave me.”  
\-----

Interestingly enough, she is the one who stumbles through a confession of feelings.

They fall behind their companions, soaking up the sun, arms swinging side by side as he tells her the story of some poor initiate who had accidentally walked out without his trousers on. 

“The poor boy,” she gasps in between bouts of laughter.

He grins. “We never let him live it down.”

“I can only imagine.”

With a sigh, she stops, lips still curved in a smile as she steps closer to him. 

He looks at her, eyebrows raised questioningly as she looks behind her, in front of her and to the sides of the street before focusing her gray eyes on him. 

“I need to tell you something,” she says slowly, her eyes pinning him in place. 

You can tell me anything,“ he states comfortingly as he notices the light pink staining her cheeks.

She licks her lips, brows furrowed, hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. She steps closer, almost to the point where their chests are brushing. The words are strangled in her throat as she fights past her upbringing that defines any sort of feeling as unnecessary.

She has fought with both sides of her during the long nights spent in her tent, chaotic thoughts keeping her awake. This boy has firmly entrenched himself in her world, her heart, her everything is tainted by his presence. In between the fighting, the late night watches, the travels across the land she began to care for him, his presence a bright spot in this world of death and darkness. 

The other half of her has scorned her feelings, belittling those thoughts of romance, reminding her that she has a duty that does not involve the hazel eyed boy with an impish grin and kind personality. 

And now, standing before him, her heart trapped in her throat as she teeters on a precipice, two distinct destinies laid before her, Rowena Marie Cousland decides to travel down a path that defies her very upbringing.

"I don’t know when it happened,” she begins, “but I need to tell you that, that I have come to care for you. A great deal, in fact.”

It’s a little robotic, plain and lacking any sort of trappings but the look in his eyes tells her that her words have affected him tremendously. 

His looks surprised, a hand going up to rub the side of his neck, cheeks red, hazel eyes wide and full of disbelief.

“I know we haven’t known each other for very long, but I find myself thinking of you more often than I’d care to admit.” He still looks surprised. “You don’t have to say anything, I’m sorry, I-”

She is aware that she is babbling but the words won’t stop coming out. It’s like the tight lock on her feelings has busted open, spilling over the sides, forcing her to sound like some daft idiot.She intends to move on, to forget about this whole ordeal and even manages to take a few steps before a warm hand against her wrist forces her to stop. 

“Rowena.”

He pulls her closer with a gentle tug on her arm and she willingly obeys. He no longer looks surprised; he looks relieved and happy and shy. Much to her surprise, she finds herself calling him ‘adorable’ in her head. Oh how mother would be absolutely disgusted by such thoughts.

“I didn’t think you’d ever feel that way about me,” he admits quietly as he brings his hand down to his side. “I have cared for you for so long, 

With a wry chuckle she says, "You and me both. But,” she glances up at him from under her lashes, “here I am.”

He smiles and brings up a hand to curve her cheek.

“Here you are.”  
\------  
Rowena is not the sort to show affection in public. It’s something that they both have to deal with in the days following her declaration of feelings.

The day after they started to pack up camp Alistair bounds over to her, a shy grin curving his mouth as he reaches out to cup her cheek. Rowena can feel everyone’s gaze upon them and so she jerks away muttering, “Not now,” under her breath. His cheeks flush, his mouth falling into a frown as he mumbles his apologies and walks away from her. 

She feels ashamed as she watches the slump of his shoulders. She resolves to explain, to reassure him that it’s not like she doesn’t want to touch her, it’s just not something she’s used to. He keeps to himself for the rest of the day though his eyes are constantly upon her, burning a hole against the back of her neck. They manage to secure a fairly secluded spot near a river and when Rowena is finished setting up her tent, she goes over to where Alistair is currently fumbling with the poles, his string of curses making her grin.

“Need any help?” She offers. 

He shakes his head, avoiding her eyes, turning away from her. The guilt simmers in her stomach. 

“Alistair.”

He freezes at his name, the low, even tone of her voice making him turn around, a questioning look in his eyes.

“I need to talk to you. Alone,” she says, indicating with her eyes to a spot beyond the edge of the camp.

He looks worried, brows furrowed, but when she begins to walk away from camp, she hears his footsteps behind her. She takes them down to the river, stopping beneath a tree, its heavy branches swaying gently in the breeze. She leans against the base of the tree, closing her eyes, listening to the rippling water, as she she gathers her thoughts. It is evident that he fears that something is wrong, that she most likely brought him out here to inform him that she’s changed her mind about them. His crinkled brow, the down turned mouth and the way he keeps shifting his weight are not at all subtle. 

She beckons him with a curve of her fingers. “Come here.”

He slowly approaches but stops uncertainly. She pushes away from the tree and closes the distance between them, her fingers lacing through his. His sharp intake of breath confirms her belief that he imagined something entirely different when she brought him here.

“I want you to know that it is not you, it will never be because of you.”

“I don’t understand.”

She swallows thickly as she grips his hand tighter. She’s not entirely used to sharing bits of herself, despite their late night story time. She’s always been taught to be reserved, to keep her real self hidden beneath a façade of a calm, sophisticated noblewoman. 

“The other day when you touched me,” she clarifies.

“Oh.” He mutters, redness snaking up his neck. “I apologize, I-”

“No!” She swiftly counters.

“No?”

“It isn’t,” she takes a deep breath. “It isn’t because of you. It’s my fault. I am not used to such casual touches. My family was never big on showing affection and so it has been somewhat difficult, especially when we’re so publicly exposed.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he murmurs softly. “I understand.”

She grins in relief, her eyes bright with warmth. 

“I wanted, that is, is it okay if I hold your hand?”

“Yes.”

He gently slides his palm along hers lacing their fingers together. 

“You said you disliked being touched in public, but in private..?”

She gives him a wicked grin. “Why ser Templar, are you suggesting that you’d want to touch me in private?”

“Not like that! I mean, yes I want to..ugh!”

She laughs at his faltering attempts to form a coherent sentence, squeezing their palms together. 

“Just be patient with me,” she whispers into the night.  
\-------  
Lips trail down the curve of her neck, teeth lightly piercing the soft skin. A sharp moan pierces the air. A swipe of a tongue is the apology. Large hands slide up and down the sides of her body before wrapping around her hips. 

“Alistair,” she moans, gripping his hair, tugging him back up so she can kiss him on the mouth. 

They’re in her tent, a lone lantern casting shadows across their bodies as they hurriedly divest the other of their clothing. She fumbles with the ties of his breeches, his earlier words still swirling around in her head.

_“I want to spend the night with you. Here. In the camp.”_

She had been surprised at his statement; they had only allowed themselves heated kisses and touches, one of them pulling away before it progressed into dangerous territory. They had both wanted to wait, never finding that right moment until now, it seemed. And so after repeatedly asking him if he was sure, she had taken his hand, ignoring the knowing looks and whistles of their companions, and led them into her tent.

“Rowena?” Comes his husky voice.

She focuses her attention on the man before her, his hair rumpled from her fingers, his clothes askew.

“Yes?”

“Are you…do you still want…” He trails off with vague hand gesture between them, his cheeks red.

“Yes!” She nearly shouts, her own cheeks coloring at how loud her voice sounds.

“Oh, that’s good. I just…you stopped and I wasn’t sure”

She leans forward cupping his face. “I am sure. I am just nervous. I’ve never done this before.”

“Well,” he says with a slight grin. “Neither have I. What an experience this will be.”

She kisses him again, tongue filling his mouth, as she works at the lacing on his shirt, separating briefly so he can toss his shirt into a corner of the tent. She runs her hands up   
his chest, curling around his neck. “Take off my shirt.,” she whispers against his ear.

He does, and when his eyes widen at the sight of her breasts, she smiles.

“Touch me,” she commands.

He brings up a hand to palm her breast, her nipple slipping between his fingers, his mouth latching onto her other breast. The attention paid to her breasts has her throwing her head back in ecstasy. He suckles while his fingers pluck and pull at her sensitive nipples, the sensation overwhelming in its intensity.

He trails his mouth up her chest, her jaw, the scratch of his stubble a pleasant burn on her skin. He makes quick work of her leggings, his fingers trailing down her highly sensitive skin. He settles a leg between her thighs, his weight settling like a warm blanket on her body, his cock brushing against her heat. 

“Makers breath!” She gasps arching her body. 

He lowers his mouth to nibble on the hollow of her throat sucking hard enough that she knows she’ll bear a dark purple mark in the morning. 

“I am so lucky you’re in my life, Rowena,” he whispers in her ear.

Tears press at the corners of her eyes, her heart thudding painfully against her ribs at the loving way he says her name. She allows herself to lower her guard in these private moments with him; she no longer has to carry a burden, no longer has to be hard and steely and detached. She can just be a girl falling in love with the boy who made himself so important, so _necessary_ to her.

“Hey,” he says softly as he gently swipes a thumb against a traitorous tear. “Already crying and we haven’t even gotten to the worst part.”

She snorts, shifting her hips, smirking when he groans at the sensation.

“Serves you right.”

“I’ve managed to fall in love with a cruel woman. What did I do to deserve such a fate?” He sighs heavily.

She smacks his shoulder, lips twitching with mirth even as her stormy eyes glare up at him.

She deliberately shifts again causing them both to moan. “Minx,” he mutters.

“Make love to me,” she states.

With a blush on his cheeks, he positions himself, slowly entering her, pausing when her breath hitches as she stretches to accommodate him. He repeatedly asks if she is okay until Rowena reaches up, kissing him hard, effectively shutting him up. He slowly moves his hips, gritting his teeth at the tight sensation of her. Her legs wrap around his waist, nails digging in his shoulders as he slowly thrusts in and out.

“Faster,” she moans, too intent on the pressure building inside her to care about feeling embarrassed. 

He obliges, snapping his hips against hers, his mouth hot against her neck as he drives into her. 

Rowena sees bright dots of color, tension coiling in her stomach. With a shout of his name she comes apart, his own release shortly after hers.   
They lay tangled together, his fingers igniting tiny sparks of desire along her sensitive skin. He turns, propping himself up on his arm, his handsome face full of unease.

“Was it…I mean,” he falters and she reassures him. 

“It was perfect.”

The sincerity in her voice prompts him to ask something else: “I was wondering if I could, that is maybe…”

“You can tell me.”

“I, uh, would much rather show you,” he mutters and show her he does.

His mouth travels down her stomach, the muscles tightening in anticipation. He opens her legs, kissing the insides of her thighs, deliberately ignoring that part of her that burns for his mouth.

“Alistair,” she warns. “I swear to the Maker if you don’t - ah!”

He licks along her slit, slowly, dark hazel eyes staring at her from between her legs. 

Oh, fuck, she thinks as she winds her fingers in his hair. 

Holy fucking Maker, she moans as his mouth settles on her clit, sucking and teasing.

She tugs on his hair as she bucks against his mouth, blaspheming with abandon as he makes her come with his mouth.

“Andraste’s flaming knickers,” she huffs in amazement. “Wherever did you learn that?”

A smug grin curves his mouth. 

“I did live with the Grey Warden’s for a while,” he teases. 

She laughs, curling around him. They fall asleep, tangled together, their burdens temporarily banished. 

Rowena thinks it might be one of her favorite moments.

\----

“Alistair will be king, and I will rule beside him!”

Gasps filter through the chamber as her words travel. A few noblemen narrow their eyes, glancing between her and Alistair, as if to say 'did you plan this’, though anyone can tell that he’s just as surprised as they are at her decision. 

Later when she’s coordinating strategy, he manages to catch her. He takes them to his chambers, shutting the door behind him before facing her, an odd look on his face.

“So get this- a man becomes king and gets engaged all in the same day.”

There’s a brief moments of fear that he’ll decide to marry someone else before Rowena squares her shoulders and says, “Is there a problem?”

“Not at all. I am rather relieved you’ll be with me, actually,” he admits.

She softens and walks towards him, settling her hands in his chest. “We’ll get through this together,” she promises with a quick kiss to his jaw.

“I get to spend the rest of my life with the woman I love. Maker how did I get so lucky.”

When he lowers his mouth, nipping at the spot on her neck guaranteed to make her shiver, she thinks she is the lucky one. 

\------

A few months into their marriage, Rowena receives a missive, the contents hinting at a promising lead for the Cure. Alistair is vehemently against the idea that she travel alone. 

“You can’t go with me,” snaps Rowena after they’ve argued for what feels like the hundredth time.

“I know,” he mutters, “I just…what if I lose you?”

Her resolve falters at the pain lacing his words, buts he needs him to understand that it has to be her. This cure isn’t just for them; it’s for every Grey Warden, every brother and sister whose life was forever altered by the taint in their blood. 

She curves her hand against his cheek, his hazel eyes closing as he presses his forehead against hers. The temptation to stay with him, to send someone else is overwhelming, the words pushing against her clamped lips, yearning to break free. But a Cousland always does their duty, no matter the sacrifices.

“My love,” she whispers in the curve of his neck, fingers clutching the soft material of his tunic. “This is for the best. Please don’t make this any harder than it already is.”

He sighs, sliding his fingers through her hair, pins clattering to the floor as he cradled her head between his hands. His eyes are bright with worry and resignation; despite his misgivings he wouldn’t want her to just hand over the job to someone else, no matter how much he wants her with him.

“When do you leave?”

“In the morning,” is her regretful reply.

He kisses the tip of her nose, the curve of her high cheekbone. 

“It seems I should start saying my goodbyes now,” he murmurs, pushing her toward the bed.

Her grin is wicked as she curls her hands around his neck. 

\-----

She shifts her weight in the saddle, grimacing at the soreness in her thighs. Cold rain trickles in between the slats of her armor, her hood drenched and plastered on her head. Maker, she can’t wait until she can have a proper bath, with warm water, and a bed, oh sweet Andraste, a nice cozy bed with soft sheets and a feathery pillow. She sighs with longing.

The grand walls of the castle come into view, and it takes everything in her not to urge her poor horse to go faster. Everything looks the same, despite the four years that have gone by. And he was worried he wouldn’t be able to rule alone, she thinks fondly. No riots in the street, no angry townspeople, the castle still standing. 

The sleepy-eyed guards at the gate warily watch her approach, posture straightening as she slides off her horse. She rubs at her backside, nose crinkling with displeasure at her sore muscles.

“Who goes there?” Inquires a burly guard, eyes narrowed inside his helmet.

“It’s only me, Raleigh,” she replies, pushing off her hood, running a hand through the heavy fall of her soaked hair.

His eyes widen as he attempts to make a clumsy bow.

“Y-Your Majesty,” he splutters, his fellow guard executing a sloppy bow of his own.

Maker, she is tired. “If you wouldn’t mind,” she says with a look towards the still closed gate.

Raleigh splutters again, hastily opening the gate so she can wearily tris her horse inside. A stable boy immediately appears at her side, taking the reins from her cold hand.  
She makes her way inside, the gasps of the servants trailing behind her as she navigates a maze of hallways. Her steps quicken as her funnels begin to clumsily undo clasps and buckles, her armor falling to the ground in a series of loud clanks until she pushes open a heavy oak door, clad in a damp tunic and a pair of leggings. Her eyes sweep the empty receiving chamber, a plate of fine cheeses and a bottle of wine sitting on a desk. She intends to take a step towards their bedchamber until a firm hand is pushing her against the wall, her breath leaving her lungs in a sharp exhale. The smooth, sharp tip of a dagger is placed against her throat.

“Alistair!” She gasps, slightly irritated that he managed to sneak up on her. 

The dagger clatters to the floor and her cheek is smashed against his broad chest, the smell of smoke, parchment, and Alistair filling her senses.

“Rowena,” he says thickly, his hands gripping tight, their warmth seeping into her cold skin.

She lightly pushes him back, and sees his eyes filling with tears. 

“Oh darling,” she whispers, kissing his jaw. “I found it. The cure, I found it.”

He is crying, unashamed as tears roll down his cheeks, kissing her forehead, the tip of her nose, the corners of her mouth until she is growling 'kiss me, damn it’ and his mouth settles over hers, his tongue sliding inside. He tastes like the wine he had earlier, heady and sweet. 

He pulls her up against him, rolling his hips aggressively against hers, fire spreading in her veins. “The bed,” she chokes out.

He discards her clothing, reverently kissing every inch of skin he uncovers, trying to make up for the last four years. She sighs with bliss and his heart fills lighter, fuller now that she is home. With a chuckle, he realizes that she has fallen asleep, her mouth slightly open. He presses a light kiss against the side of her head, curling around her body.

They are together again. Forever, this time.

\------

The sound of children laughing echoes throughout the castle. A young girl, strawberry blonde curls fanning out behind her, hazel eyes bright with glee, runs down a hallway. She is followed by a taller boy with gray eyes-usually so solemn- shining with mischief.

He quickly catches up to her, tugging on her skirts until the tumble to the ground in a pile of legs and arms.

“Duncan!” The girl shrieks. 

The boy opens his mouth, but is interrupted by the sounds of footsteps approaching. The children quickly stand up, smoothing out wrinkles as the King and Queen of Ferelden walk into the room.

“Duncan, Eleanor,” Rowena begins with a slight note of disapproval, hands curving around the slight bump of her stomach. “What have I said about running down the hallways?”

Alistair laughs, kissing the side of her head. “Oh, let them have fun, darling.”

She rolls her eyes, though her mouth curves into a grin. 

The children, seeing that they aren’t in real trouble, take off once again, laughing. 

“My lady,” Alistair says, offering his arm.

She places her hand against his arm and together they stroll out into a balcony, the warm summer breeze delightful against the skin. Rowena rests her head against his shoulder, sighing when the baby kicks against her stomach.

“Quite restless, isn’t he?”

Rowena grimaces as another sharp jab. 

“He is your son,” she retorts primly. 

He turns, taking her hands in his as he stares down at her.

“Are you happy?”

She looks at him, this wonderful husband of hers, thinks about everything they went through to get to where they are now

“Happier than I ever dreamed possible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. This is the longest piece I have ever written that wasn't school related.   
> We all know that Alistair is the most affectionate person in all of Thedas, but poor Rowena is just not a fan of public displays of affection and growing up, she never received that from her parents and well, yeah. That's my headcanon for her, so it's something they need to work on.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are the fire at the heart of the world,” he whispered against the hollow of her throat.
> 
> M RATED

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hangs head in shame* i have to admit to having a slight...fascination with the cheese king saying religious texts while loving his partner, and so here we are. This particular ~kink of mine will crop up time and time again, though not in this scenario.  
> I feel like I need to ask for forgiveness and it's not even that dirty, really.  
> writing this stuff is so awkward, and so it probably wont happen like this again tbh  
> eugh, i hate the ending

“You are the fire at the heart of the world,” he whispered against the hollow of her throat.

Her pulse jumped when his lips sucked hard on her skin, the pain easing into pleasure. She curled her hands in his thick hair, tugging him up until his mouth was inches away from hers.

“Are you blaspheming?” She whispered with a sly grin and a wicked glint in her midnight dark eyes.

He blushed fiercely, his hand curving around the side of her head, the tips of his fingers sliding into the ink black curls at her temple. 

“Look at what you’re doing to me, you wicked woman,” he whispered, his warm breath fluttering against her open mouth. “Here I am, speaking religious texts in such an inappropriate setting.”

She laughed. “You would most definitely would be struck by lightening for that alone.”

“It would be worth it.”

She cupped his face between her palms, leaning up to kiss him, tongue lightly tracing the seam of his lips, moaning against his mouth when he allowed her entrance, tongues meeting and tangling.  
He trailed his lips down the sharp curve of her neck peppering kisses along her collarbone. He swirled his tongue around a nipple, his breath making goosebumps prickle along her flesh. “Please” she whimpered, sighing with delight when he finally took her breast in his mouth. He kneaded her other breast, his palm warm and gentle as he fondled her. 

Cordelia squeezed her eyes shut as he trailed his mouth to the underside of her breast, pressing tender kisses as he set fire to her skin.

“Who knows you as I do,” he said, slightly changing the text, as his lips trailed down her stomach, his tongue circling around her belly button, before he began his descent down her body once more. 

He placed her legs on his shoulders, kissing the inside of her thigh, then the other one, his fingertips grazing the slight swell if her stomach. His close proximity to her core, the way his mouth hovered teasingly, briefly, over her slick center was agonizing, a pleasurable torture to Cordelia, whose loud panting filled the otherwise quiet atmosphere of his tent. 

“You composed the cadence of my heart” he murmured before running the flat of his tongue up her slick heat. 

Cordelia arched her back, a hiss of air escaping between her clenched teeth as he tongued that bundle of nerves. Her hips shifted impatiently, forcing him to put a hand on her hip to stop her ministrations. When his teeth tugged at her clit, pressure began to build inside her, a frenzied storm of pleasure swirling through her body from his skilled mouth.

He slipped a finger inside her, his thumb pressing down in her clit, rubbing insistently on her pearl. He added a second finger, pumping them in and out of her tight heat, curling them so they hit that sweet spot, the sound of his mouth on her clit, slurping and lapping at her slickness, sending Cordelia over the edge, her legs tightening against the sides of his head as she climaxed. 

She watched him lick his fingers coated with her juices, a flare of heat stabbing her body. He kissed his way up her stomach, nuzzling his nose in the valley between her breasts before his mouth pressed firmly against hers, tongue sweeping inside so she could taste herself on his tongue.

“Andraste preserve me,” she said as his teeth tugged lightly on her earlobe.

He moved his hips languidly, his cock hitting her sex, a strangled groan falling from his mouth. She curled a leg around his waist as her fingernails raked down his back. He pulled back, gripping himself in his hand, angling the tip of his cock right at her entrance. She spread her legs wider as he slowly sheathed himself in her tight heat.

“Make me to rest in the warmest places,” he said as he slowly filled her.

He felt wonderful inside of her. She shifted her hips slightly nearly coming undone at the sensation. He began to lazily thrust in and out, his head buried against the side of her neck.

“I love you so much,” he cried as he began to pick up speed, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh like sweet music to their ears. 

“My hearth is yours, my bread is yours, my life is yours,” she whispered near the shell of his ear

He momentarily stopped, his eyes widening at her words, a low growl spilling from his mouth. He roughly kissed her neck, his hips picking up speed, her legs tightening around his waist as he managed to bring a hand down between them, his thumb rubbing furiously against her clit.

Her muscles tightened, the pressure inside reaching a breaking point and screamed his name to the heavens, stars dotting her vision as she rode out her climax. 

With a groan he followed after, spilling his seed inside her before collapsing, turning slightly so as to not let his full weight wear her down. 

Pulling out, he gathered her in his arms, his fingers trailing random shapes along her stomach.

“Who’s blaspheming now?” He said with a teasing grin.

With a snort she turned to face him, nuzzling his neck. “You should have seen the look on your face. It is worth the possible death by lightning.”


End file.
